


Off the Grid

by IrishWitch58



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Motorcycles, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:03:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22317781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrishWitch58/pseuds/IrishWitch58
Summary: James goes dark during a joint mission with the French. M declares him missing, presumed dead. Q fervently disagrees.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 33
Kudos: 132
Collections: 2019-2020 00Q Reverse Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Boffin1710](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boffin1710/gifts).

> This is my entry to the 00q Reverse Big Bang. I hope I have done justice to the art prompt I was fortunate enough to secure. Boffin 1710 is an amazing artist and there were so many possibilities in the piece. Thank you. Also thanks to my lovely Mark who never ever reads my stuff but provided the title when I summarized the plot.

The multiple monitors in Q branch showed 007's latest mission, a cooperative effort with the French DGSE to take down arms dealers working out of Morocco. The central monitor was the visual from Bond's body cam. The left was a mission time line including the required check ins. Under the central monitor was a smaller one showing 007's vital signs, relayed from a Q branch designed wrist watch. Q had all but given up on tracking chips at this point. At least Bond liked the watch. The far right was a composite of CCTV inputs and the feed from a drone that was Q branch's latest innovation, a long range and largely stealth device.

Additionally, Q had the audio feed direct to his station. And he was not liking what he was hearing. He had disliked the feel of this mission from the start. A week in with no visible progress and he was ready to call a halt. And James was chafing as well, perhaps worse than he was. And Q had good reason to know. They had been lovers for six months. The sarcastic banter and outright flirting had not changed at all. Q sometimes wondered what that said about the overall relationship, that adding a decided physicality to their dynamic had changed nothing about the rest of their interactions. But it did mean Q had made very sure to have alternate non official ways to communicate. There were personal calls almost every night. And last night James had been very unhappy with his French opposite numbers. They had all been waiting in Martigues for the arms dealers to make an appearance, the French agents insisting that they had intel that an exchange was to be made here, that the suspects would show up with the cash and expect weapons. But the agents had not been forthcoming about how they had arranged this. MI6 had committed to the joint operation, so even though Bond was edgy, Mallory was insisting they go through with the plan.

At the moment, Bond and the four French agents were waiting in an ancient boat house just outside Martigues. Q watched the central monitor change as Bond turned to face the ramp that opened to the beach. Moonlight silvered the water and the drone picked up movement, a power boat with the lights dimmed, approaching slowly. There was a slight up tick on the vitals monitor. That was all the warning Q got before the drone feed ceased abruptly. The eruption of automatic weapons fire was sudden and the view began to shift erratically as Bond presumably moved to cover. The scene was chaos and Q struggled to bring sense to it. He could hear Bond's quickened breathing. He had to fight down a sudden flash of how that that had sounded in his ear the last night before James had departed, the heavy weight of James as he drove steadily into Q's body, measured and rhythmic, sweat slicking their bodies as they grappled with each other, as close as they could get. He pushed the memory down, locking it away for safety. He couldn't think of James that way right now. He had to keep his focus if he wanted his agent, his lover, to get out of this alive. “Q, this was a set up. I'm going dark.”

Before Q could say another word, the visual perspective altered as the tie bar camera hit the floor, a skewed view of the top of the boat ramp door and a man's arm with a rifle before the camera went dark. In Q's ear, controlled breathing and the pound of feet over sand, Bond running. More muffled shots and the whine of the vitals monitor as the signal was lost and the audio feed ended on a feedback whine. And Q stood, staring at the screens and took a deep breath. He turned to look over his shoulder. M was standing on the catwalk overlooking Q branch. He met Q's eyes briefly and then turned and walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

Six hours later, Q stood in the middle of his kitchen, staring at the counter top. M had refused to send an extraction team, despite Q's insistence that the absence of vital signs was not proof of death. M had officially made a pronouncement that 007 was missing, presumed dead and the mission would be closed by the French since the incident had happened on French soil. Q had returned to branch and managed to close the reports on the op, redistribute the other missions, update R on the ongoing work and then advised Bill Tanner that he was taking some of the massive amount of accumulated leave he had accrued. Tanner had watched him with the air of a man waiting for an explosive device to tick down and had finally just signed off on three weeks leave. He had looked like he wanted to say something, something inane like 'sorry'. Q had almost felt sorry for Tanner. He had seemed so uncomfortable. Q didn't care, not about Tanner or M or the fucking job right now. 

He pulled out his personal phone, the one the department knew nothing about. He placed it carefully on the counter and plugged it in to charge and then rang a number on his MI6 issue phone. The cheery voice on the other end answered after two rings. “Hi Annette. It's Quinn.” The alias fell easily from his lips. “I'm taking holiday. Can you watch the cats for me? I know it's short notice.”

Annette snorted, a sound rich in amusement. “It's about time you took more than a weekend off. Of course I can watch the little dears. Should I come by now? I have errands tomorrow and tonight will be easier.”

Q smiled. His friend worked from home and loved his cats. “Thanks, Annette. Yes tonight is fine. I'll have everything ready.”

He disconnected the call and went about the business of collecting the things the cats would need, food, toys, blankets. He set out the carriers and, when the bell rang, he let Annette in. She gave him a hug and, together, they hustled the cats into the carriers. “Are you going anyplace special?” she asked as they were moving the carriers out to her car. 

He faked a casual smile and a shrug and answered, truthfully. “I'm not really sure where I'll end up.” 

She accepted the answer and gave him another hug before driving away. Annette was trustworthy but, if anyone asked any questions, this way she wouldn't know anything other than a vague truth. Safer that way for her. Q locked his door and began to set out what he needed. He pulled out the rucksack from the space hidden by a loose board under the wardrobe. He checked the documents inside the waterproof pouch and added the fully charged tablet he had encrypted to his own standards. He changed to worn denims and a heavy pullover and trainers and replaced his glasses with contacts and returned to the kitchen. He grabbed the now charged phone and opened an app window. It showed a simple seeming map with a dot and a set of coordinates. It marked the last location sent from James' watch. The dot had been stationary since the end of the mission. He tucked the mobile and the charger away. He left his department issue electronics behind as he grabbed the rucksack and climbed over the balcony railing, dropping lightly to the small garden below. He waited a full ten minutes, hearing nothing but the occasional passing traffic on the main road. He made his way carefully over the back fence and through the hedge around the neighbor's property and walked at a steady, unhurried pace to the corner. He turned right and headed for the tube station. It was open and he used the Oyster card he had linked to his false identity, the one he would be living with for the foreseeable future. The car was deserted except for a pair of dozing young men leaning against each other, dressed for a night out. 

A few stops later he exited, the location actually a few blocks away from where he needed to be. He walked, head down just far enough to avoid the increasingly ubiquitous cameras. He strode past the door of the nondescript building and turned the corner. He peeked back around after a few minutes and, seeing nobody nearby, he went to the door and let himself in. The interior was dusty with disuse and he wasted no time heading for the basement. A section of the wall moved sideways and he let himself in to the tunnel. The door slid shut behind him and Q took a deep breath before turning the switch. 

A long string of yellow caged lights illuminated the tunnel. Q took some time to let his eyes adjust and began to move down the length of the passage, several hundred yards of cinder block lined corridor. The steel runged ladder at the end led up to a hatch. Q climbed up, switched off the lights and opened the hatch, swinging it up and out, making sure it made as little noise as possible when it touched the floor. He pushed himself up to sit on the edge and waited again for his eyes to adapt. The space that came into view was a warehouse, the windows boarded or painted over. There was an enclosure at the far end. He eased the hatch down and fastened it and moved across the floor. The old office space was windowless so again a light was necessary. He made a mental note to replace the tunnel lights with red ones at some point. 

The space held only two things. There was an industrial grey metal cupboard and a tarp covering something in the center of the floor. Q pulled off the tarp and revealed the motorcycle he had modified to suit this purpose, namely to get him away from London as inconspicuously as possible, to allow him to disappear. It had begun life as a Brough SS100. It now was something entirely unique. Q had modified everything on the bike, including using a variant of the Americans SR71 technology to engineer a stealth finish. He checked the fuel and topped up the tank from a can stowed in the cabinet. He added clothing to the rucksack and the saddle bags on the bike. He pulled out leathers and skinned into the trousers and stepped into the heavy boots. He checked the blade in the boot holster and picked up the unregistered Beretta. He checked the action, loaded it and slipped it into a holster. He tucked it into the compartment he had built under the modified fuel tank. He debated the shotgun but decided it might be too difficult to conceal. Nobody looking at him now would connect him with the Quartermaster of MI6. He had not shaved and likely would just let the beard grow. Less risk of facial recognition catching him. He locked the cabinet, picked up the helmet, and rolled the bike off it's stand and out the door into the warehouse proper. He turned off the light and locked the inside door before unlocking the side exit to the alley. 

Q rolled the bike almost half a mile before he paused in a dark corner. He was about to risk everything for a feeling. The feeling that M was wrong. The feeling that James was alive and that there was a great deal more to the debacle at Martigues than was immediately apparent. Q planned almost everything in his life to a nicety. James Bond had been the one thing he hadn't planned on. And now he was taking off on instinct to find a man everyone else thought was dead. He sighed and tugged the helmet on, straddling the bike and kicking the engine to life. He headed to the motorway, the route to Calais and let the rhythm of the gear changes and weight shifts take over so he wouldn't think too much.


	3. Chapter 3

The breeze blew through his hair as Q stood on the deck, leaning on the rail as the ferry neared Calais. It would be a long run to Martigues. He planned to take routes off the main motorways to look more like a tourist just admiring the countryside. He checked the phone in his pocket. Still no messages. He had hoped for some contact from Bond by this time. He eyed the approaching coast and turned away from the rail. He had time for a cup of tea and he tugged out his pocket road atlas. He didn't want to risk using the phone. He was confident in his encryption techniques but no tech was foolproof. He didn't want anyone tracking his route. He had a destination in his head by the time the ferry docked. He rolled the bike off and headed south. 

He stopped at Auxerre and found a hostel that seemed to cater to university students and other low income holiday makers. The room was shared with a pair of young men from Sweden. Q affected not to understand their actually good English and spoke solely French, creating a specific impression. He slept poorly, restless in a strange bed. He was up before his alarm and pulled his rucksack from beneath his head. He grabbed coffee at a place on the square and mounted the bike. He rode several miles to a deserted spot where the verge was wooded. He rolled the bike out of sight of the road and pulled the holstered Beretta out of concealment, hooking the holster to loops on the back of his leathers, snugging the weapon against the small of his back. It was not his preferred carry position but it was the most practical for the moment. It was well hidden under his jacket and accessible enough. He wasn't anticipating any stand up gunfights after all. 

Q continued on his way, arriving outside Martigues late in the afternoon having taken a meandering slow route to be sure he wasn't followed. He hid the bike out of sight of the road behind a tumbledown wall and pulled out a pair of compact binoculars. The boathouse was below him, down a slope with several other disused buildings. He stretched out on his belly and focused the glasses on the battered building with it's peeling paint and rusting gutters. He watched for an hour, taking care to survey the approaches from the water as well. There was no movement, no sign the building had been used any time in the last decade. He needed to get closer to get any more information. He tucked the binoculars away and sat down near the bike, waiting for sunset. When it was finally dark enough, he pocketed a red lensed torch and eased down the slope. The small noises he inevitably made would hopefully be attributed to local wildlife. He paused, leaning against the leprously peeling wall and listened. A slight scuffle in the overgrown grass proved to be a cat who marched nonchalantly past Q with a rat held in her jaws. Her lack of concern was comforting. If there had been any recent human activity, she likely would have taken her hunt elsewhere. 

There were no sounds now beyond the susurration of the small waves on the pebbled beach and the movements of leaves in the light breeze. Time to move. Q eased the door open and slipped in, crouching immediately to one side, the torch held along the barrel of his sidearm. He swept carefully side to side around the space and found it empty, nothing offering potential concealment. There were scuff marks all over the dusty floor, a confused abstract of different tracks. Near the boat ramp entrance, there was a gleam of scattered brass. Q paced the interior, examining everything. On the far side from the door he had used, there was a glint of something from a crack in the floorboards. He crouched and poked at the object, freeing a familiar metal shape. It was the tie pin body cam James had been wearing. One side was indented, as if a heavy boot had crushed it into the floor. He pocketed the damaged tech and eased back outside, closing the door to make it seem as if the place was undisturbed. 

He went down to the shoreline, opening the app on his phone and trying to match the position of the dot. He reached what he thought was the correct general area and halted. There was nothing. Glancing ahead, he saw a beached skiff, the wood bleached and battered. On a hunch, he walked over to it. No body, no sign of a struggle, no blood. He poked under and around the boat and felt something. He got two fingers around a metal buckle and pulled out a watch, familiar as any object he had personally crafted would be to his fingers. James had tossed it here. It hadn't been torn off. The buckle had been opened. It confirmed to Q that James had disappeared on his own volition. He stood and scanned the area. There was no nearby shelter but swimming to the beaches nearer the town would be an easy task for a man as fit as 007. He set the watch down and carefully pulled off the back. He disabled the tracking so, if MI6 decided to take another look, they wouldn't find it at all. Hopefully they would assume battery failure or some such. He added the watch to his pocket as well and headed back to his bike. He turned it up the coast and to Martigues.


	4. Chapter 4

The town had a number of very nice hotels. It was not as well known as other cities on that section of the coast but it had a rising tourist trade. The one James had been booked into was midrange, in keeping with the cover he had been using, a businessman with less flash and more substance. Q checked in and sat in his room and considered how best to proceed. The room he had booked for Bond was one floor below and had been paid up until the end of the week. Presumably that meant his luggage was still there. Getting in was easy. He could unlock any key card door with almost no effort. He just had to wait for a good time. Late evening or early morning seemed to be best. People would be returning to the hotel from restaurants and clubs. Accordingly, he altered his clothing, styled his hair and went out to eat. He wandered back an hour or so later, deliberately swaying a bit, and took the lift to the correct floor. With nobody in sight, he slid the modified card in and turned the handle. 

As expected, there was a compact suitcase on the bench at the foot of the bed and a briefcase on the desk. A glance in the bathroom showed a bag of toiletries set squarely in the middle of the counter. Q disabled the traps in the suitcase first. Nothing appeared to be out of place. Spare shirts and underwear were all packed according to the style Q knew James used. Neat and efficient. The briefcase also seemed to be a dead end. The MI6 laptop had not been tampered with. It responded properly to his codes. If someone had been at it, there would have been markers. He backed out and erased his footprints. It was the shaving kit that piqued his interest. James' cut throat razor wasn't there. It was one item that could not be replaced. It was a piece of his family history. So, he'd taken it with him. Q sat on the corner of the bed. He surveyed the room top to bottom, letting his mind see the patterns and anything that didn't fit. 

Post cards. There were post cards on top of the hotel stationary. A quick flash of the exchange entered his mind. 'I'll send you a post card' and his own rejoinder, 'Please, don't.' Q smiled and picked up the small stack. The second from the bottom had simple block printing on the back with no signature. 'Looking forward to brunch at Enoteca al duomo, ciao'. Q took the post card with him and headed back to his own room. 

Without a lab, he couldn't do any analysis of the card or ink. If James assumed Q was following his breadcrumbs, he must know that. So the message was intended as the clue. He looked up the reference on his tablet and found it was a popular cafe in Orvieto. So it seemed he was heading to Italy. He tucked the postcard away and tried to sleep, his thoughts running, inevitably, to the man he was pursuing. The arms deal had gone bad somehow. Q wondered if there had been a mole in the French end of things. He was sure enough of his own people to believe it wasn't from his department. And where was his wayward agent now? Q eventually fell into a troubled sleep, waking before his alarm and gathering up his things. Before he left, he used the hotel business center computer to access a back door and sent a message to the hotel to forward Mr. Sterling's luggage to the address on his account since he had been unexpectedly called home. He retrieved his bike and mounted up, settling himself for the 8 hour ride to Orvieto.


	5. Chapter 5

The Italian countryside was lovely but Q barely attended to it as he rode, focused on the distance covered and the end of the trip. He forced himself to make a few stops. If anyone was watching him, he should look like a casual tourist. He paused and took pictures and made a slightly longer stop for lunch. He didn't identify anyone that turned up at more than one stop. Genoa for lunch was pleasant and he sat on a bench at the Old Port and eased his tired muscles. He hadn't spent so much time on a motorcycle in years and he plainly wasn't used to it. He felt better for the rest and remounted the bike. 

He regretted passing through Florence. It was a favored memory from a trip during his university days and he might have liked the chance to reacquaint himself with some of the galleries. Instead, he pushed on, arriving in Orvieto at dusk. The cafe mentioned was directly adjacent to the central cathedral, easy to find as that building dominated the entire city with it's massive walls of striped black and white marble and it's ornate facade. He found the cafe and was seated within minutes, ordering a bruschetta with truffle and a wine recommended by the server. He reflected that this might not be an easy clue. The restaurant was apparently popular and had a high percentage of tourists. He lingered over his meal and watched the passers by. When the server came with the bill, he asked, “What time is brunch served?” The server seemed, at first, not to understand. Q elaborated, knowing his Italian was a bit rusty. “What is the earliest you are open for lunch then?” 

The waiter nodded and smiled. “We open at 9:30, Signore, everyday.”

Q accepted that information, paid his bill and headed off to find a reasonably located hotel. Bond's note had said brunch. So back he would go tomorrow. The hotel was in walking distance of the square. He would get a night's sleep and hopefully get some answers tomorrow. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror when he got to his room. He almost didn't recognize himself. His beard had grown in readily enough and his face looked very different without the glasses. He was getting colour on his face from the sun and the wind. Showered, he sat on the edge of the bed. He examined the little he had to go on, a crushed tie pin, a watch, and a post card. The physical clues were scant. But he had one other thing. He knew Bond. His lover had dropped out of sight for a reason and he was willing to bet it was a good reason. Increasingly Q was getting a bad feeling about what it was that had sent 007 into cover deep enough that even Q was finding it hard to follow him. 

He was awake and dressed and and watching the television in his hotel room an hour before the cafe would be open. There was still nothing on the news about the incident at Martigues. That much gunfire should have warranted some mention. He purchased a French language newspaper on his way out to the square and again found nothing. The entire event was being kept under wraps. That meant the DGSE wasn't allowing any reports to leak out. Understandable if the gunrunners were still at large but it was also possible there were other reasons. He headed to the cafe, newspaper tucked under his arm. If Bond had left him another clue here, how might he have done it? Knowing Bond's predilections, he would have sought out the prettiest waitress and left some message with her. The only issue was the morning wait staff were all male. Well, maybe the same applied anyway. He caught the attention of a young man with blond hair in a short pony tail and a lovely tan. When he got closer, Q asked in his best Italian, “I wonder if you might have seen my friend in the past few days. I keep missing him and I thought I might catch up with him here as he mentioned the restaurant. He's English, a little taller than me, with blond hair and very blue eyes.” 

The young man thought a bit. “I may have seen him but I think Nico served him. Hey Nico, come on and talk to the customer.” He gestured to the back of the room and a young man with dark hair and narrow features approached.

“How may I help, Signore?” he asked, with a bright smile.

“Your coworker says you might have waited on my friend,” he began, again describing Bond. 

“Ah, the Englishman. He liked our coffee very much and was very polite. You must be the one he left the message for.” Nico dug in the pocket of his waiter's apron and pulled out a small envelope. “He told me I was to ask you what your name was,” he explained in an apologetic tone. 

Q had been prepared for something like that. “Lowen,” he answered. He had told James his given name three months ago. James used it rarely, but always when he was saying something serious. He had no doubt he would have used it now. It was unavailable to anyone else in the department with the exception of the current M who was the one who had made the decision to declare his agent dead. 

Nico smiled and passed over the envelope. Again the printing on the outside was precise and anonymous. Q smiled in return and passed over a tip, not quite large enough to cause comment but enough to ensure good will. He made sure to finish his food in a leisurely way, not opening the envelope, but watching the tourists admiring the cathedral. He returned by a roundabout route to the hotel, taking a few pictures and stopping to admire the fountains and the shops, pausing often to look behind him in the window glass. He eventually made it back to the hotel, retreated to his room and checked the tell tales he had set up. Nothing had been disturbed and he locked the door and sat on the bed, finally pulling the envelope out to examine it. 

The outside was a plain inexpensive stock. The printing looked like ordinary blue biro ink, his name in simple block printing. He ran sensitive fingers over the outside but could feel nothing unusual. He slid a finger under the flap and finally opened it. There was a folded piece of paper inside, seemingly similar to the envelope in quality. It was folded in quarters to fit. He laid it out on the bed, unfolding carefully, in case something small was inside but that proved not to be the case. It was merely a short note. 'I think we should take that holiday we talked about'. There was no signature.

Q ran his fingers over the brief message. James was relying on his ability to parse out the tiniest of clues. So what holiday had they talked about? He stared at the simple letters as if they might change into a map in front of his eyes. No luck there. He had to have it in his own head somewhere. He went back over all the times they had been together recently. Conversations about work predominated along with practical everyday exchanges on what to eat and whose place they were staying at on a rare weekend off, usually Q's. 

Then he had it. About a month ago, he had asked James if there was someplace he hadn't been that he might like to visit. He had pulled up a picture of Santorini. He even mentioned the hotel he'd like. Q had agreed that the destination looked amazing, even more wonderful when it was pointed out that air travel was unnecessary. There were car ferries that visited the island. They had talked about taking a holiday together there, sunning themselves on the beaches. It was the only thing Q could think of. Trust his agent to find a bolt hole in a luxury destination. 

He found an internet cafe and used an anonymous account to look up information. Brindisi to Igoumenitsa by ferry then ride to Piraeus and another ferry to Santorini. He checked the times for the ferries and worked out how long it would take to make the connections. It would likely be another two days before he saw James, assuming his educated guess was correct and assuming he made all the connections. He checked the time for the next ferry from Brindisi and decided to take the seven hour ride today to be at the port early in the morning.   
.


	6. Chapter 6

Q was exhausted and felt filthy. His skin itched under his leathers and his hair felt greasy and unkempt between being jammed under his helmet or exposed to the winds on the ferry decks. The ferry berths were tolerable but his rising anxiety and his usual disordered sleep patterns meant he cat napped and paced. And he had missed the quicker ferry crossing at Piraeus. Now he watched as the ferry approached the dock, tapping his fingers on the rail, impatiently waiting until he could wheel the bike off and head up to the hotel. And it was becoming apparent to him exactly how much he was counting on James being here. He had traveled far enough. 

Once off the ramp, he asked the attendant directing passengers the quickest route to the Grace. The man gave him a dubious look and suggested he might like a more economical place to stay. Gritting his teeth, Q barely managed to keep his voice level. “The Grace, please.” The man shrugged and pointed to the road that wound up and and out from the port, gesturing north. Q nodded and mounted the bike. The signs at the crossroads outside the port told him he had another 20 -30 minutes on the road. It was mid afternoon and the road was dusty but thankfully not too crowded. He knew the hotel had parking, thankfully he found the lot in front of the hotel had space for the bike. He grabbed the rucksack and detached the saddle bags, slinging both over his shoulder and headed for the staircase that accessed the cliff top hotel entrance.

The clerk on duty seemed unconcerned with his travel worn appearance. Luxury hotels had a habit of overlooking their guests' state of dress and habits. He marched up to the desk with purpose and leaned on the pristine counter. “Is there a message for me? The name is De Tremaine.” He had used the alias that he was traveling under, the only one he was sure Bond was aware of. 

The clerk checked a file under the edge of the counter and came up with a card. “Of course, Sir. You'll be joining Mr. Kincade in the Grace Suite. May I see your documents so I can add you to the reservation?”

Q nonchalantly handed over the cover passport and license. He knew they were perfect and studied the area around him casually as the details were taken down. The clerk handed them back and at some unheard signal, a uniformed bellman approached. Q accepted the offer of help for the oddments he carried but held on to the key himself. The route through the hotel took them up and down different levels and ended at a hall with only one door. Q retrieved his bags, despite the employee's protestations, and handed him a very nice gratuity. He waited until the man had returned the way they had come before sliding the key card into the slot. 

Q held his breath and eased the door open, dropping the bags in the entry way and hearing the lock click shut behind him. He had eyes only for the man seated in a chair facing the huge sunlit windows that offered a sumptuous view of the caldera. Bond was tanner than he had been, dressed in a pair of dark suit trousers, a white dress shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up. Grey braces crossed the white expanse of shirt front. He had his right ankle resting on his left knee and held a glass of what had to be whiskey in his left hand. Q swayed a bit on his feet. He forced himself to walk forward and stand in front of the chair, looking down. Bond looked up at him, a soft welcoming expression. Q reached down, plucked the glass up and downed it in one throat burning swallow and tossed the glass aside, only vaguely registering the tinkling impact as the fine crystal shattered on the tile.


	7. Chapter 7

Every bit of emotion Q had experienced in the past week bubbled up and roiled through his middle. He had lied to his employer, disappeared from his home, and likely broken a dozen conditions in his contract. He had covered more miles on a motorcycle that he had ever wanted to, slept poorly, eaten irregularly, and stressed over the fate of the man in front of him and he had no resources left to express himself in words. With a frustrated growl, he grabbed Bond by the braces, and hauled him up to a violently possessive kiss. The hard muscles tightened fractionally before Bond unfolded his legs and got his arms around Q's waist, pulling in turn. He toppled him into his lap, never breaking contact. The kiss tasted of whiskey and there was a gritty scratch from the beard currently flourishing on Q's face. It went on for long greedy moments while he reacquainted himself with every corner of James' mouth, shifting his hands to the powerful shoulders, fingers digging in, desperate to maintain contact. He broke away for a brief moment. “You miserable bastard! Do you have any idea what I went through?” Bond silenced him by kissing him again, hard hands pressing him as close as possible. Q, still simmering with the accumulated tension, moaned into the kiss, teeth clashing with James'. He had a vague thought that he should slow down but every feeling was so close to the surface that he couldn't.

Q nipped at James' lower lip, sharp and insistent and dropped his hands downward, tugging at buttons and fastenings, desperate for skin. His frustrated scrabbling had little result except to pop some of the tiny shirt buttons off and send them skittering across the room. There was just no space for him to work. He resisted when James pushed him back, settling him on his feet. “Shush, slow down, I'm not going anywhere. Don't you think this would be much easier if we get out of our clothes first?” While he was speaking, James was pushing the jacket off Q's shoulders, only slightly hampered by Q's insistent kisses and questing fingers. The heavy leather thumped on the floor, buckles clanking. James leaned down and hauled at the fastenings of the boots, tapping at one leg than the other to coax Q to step out of them. Q, deciding no clothes was a good idea, hauled off his tee shirt, tossing it aside. He struggled with the leather trousers for a bit until James grasped his wrists firmly and moved them out of the way. Q whined as the strong fingers manipulated the fastenings, bumping against his constrained erection. James pushed the leather out of the way and then ran his hands around to the back of the waistband, pausing upon encountering the holster. Slow warm breaths gusted over Q's cock, now straining the fabric of his briefs, as James eased the weapon free and deposited it on the table next to his own. 

The hands returned, resting on Q's hips. James looked up, blue eyes seeking out Q's face and locking onto his gaze as he slid the briefs down just enough to let Q's cock free, bobbing up to tap James' chin, the head already wet with precome and flushed with excitement and need. James opened his mouth and circled his tongue around the head. Q's breath hissed out in an urgent “Yes!” and he clapped his hands down tightly on James' shoulders. James controlled the thrust of hips and opened wider, easing down and enclosing Q's erection in heat and slick pleasure. James wasn't playing. He set a steady pace, one he knew would get a quick response from Q. In some still rational part of his brain, Q was grateful the man had learned his responses in the past six months because he was unable to do more than hang on and allow the orgasm to be pulled from him. The eruption was sudden, sharp, and so good he saw sparkles at the edge of his vision and felt his legs shake in reaction. He almost fell forward, James folding him back down to sit on his lap, nosing at his ear and placing gentle kisses on his neck. 

It took long minutes for Q to get his scattered thoughts to form a cohesive pattern. He ran his fingers up and down the open front of James' shirt. “I'm sorry,” he began.

James gave him a sharp squeeze. “Don't you dare apologize. You needed that. Frankly, it's flattering to be wanted so much that it shut your brain down for a bit. If anything, I'm sorry I wasn't able to find a safe way to get you more information.” He was carding his fingers through Q's tangled hair, tugging very gently to separate the strands, his heartbeat a steady comforting presence in Q's ear. “There was something wrong with the op from the start.”

Q twisted and caught James' mouth with another kiss, this one slow and sensual. “I'd rather not talk about work right now. What I want is to get out of the rest of this leather, get clean, and give you serious encouragement to fuck me stupid.” 

James nudged his hips upward, letting Q feel the effect he was already having. “I won't need much encouragement.” He helped Q lever himself up to stand a bit unsteadily and turned him in the direction of the bath. Q didn't notice much of the luxury around him. It took the efforts of both men to finish extricating Q from the leathers. He began to giggle hysterically as James had to lay him flat on the thick bath mat and tug at the ankles to finally pull the things off. “What's so funny?” James asked as he tossed pants and trousers aside.

Catching his breath, Q confided, “I had an image in my head of having to go back to work in the damned things if we couldn't get me out of them.”

“A disaster for sure,” James agreed, grinning. “Your arse is enough of a distraction in regular trousers. Q branch would never get any work done if you showed up in those.” He shooed Q into the shower enclosure and added, “Next time put more baby powder on. They slide on and off easier.” Q adjusted the shower heads and began to scrub, aware of James slipping in behind him. Strong arms tucked around his waist and a solid erection nudged at him. Q reached a hand back and James shifted out of reach. “Patience, darling. Shower sex is always fine in imagination and ridiculous in practice. Let me get your hair for you.” Suiting action to words, James grabbed the shampoo that the hotel provided, some high end product Q had never heard of, and lathered up his hands, combing them through Q's hair and rubbing tenderly at the scalp. The sensation was at once soothing and electrifying, James had wonderful strong hands, and they were working such simple magic now. Q sighed and leaned into the deft touches, feeling the simmering arousal everywhere, nerve ends sparkling. James noticed because, of course he did. He pushed Q under the spray to rinse and grabbed the soap and a sponge, slicking over skin with it and following with soft kisses as he rinsed. By the time they exited the shower, Q was close to the same level of arousal as when he arrived, unable to keep his hands from grabbing at James as he determinedly toweled both of them dry.

Eventually, James managed to maneuver them both to the bedroom, where Q decided waiting was over rated and proceeded to wrap himself around James, over balancing them and ending up on the mattress with James on the bottom while Q trailed kisses over whatever skin he could reach. And he was flexible enough to reach a lot of it. He realized at some point that James was just lying back and offering kisses and caresses in turn but allowing Q to set the pace. When he looked at James' face quizzically and received a tilted eyebrow in response. James gave a easy one shoulder shrug. “I rather fancy changing the plan a bit. You seem to have a lot of energy still to expend. I thought you might prefer to work it out on me.” The satisfied smile made Q narrow his eyes and dive in for a breath stealing kiss. It didn't matter how they went about it. He just wanted to be as close as possible. It wasn't as if they hadn't done it this way before but Q was used to having a lot more self control than he was feeling right now.

“I don't want to hurt you, not like this,” he whispered. 

James kissed the frown lines between Q's eyes. “I can handle a bit of enthusiasm, love.” He reached to the head board and slapped a bottle of lube and a condom into Q's hand. “Come on, we both need it.”

Q stared for a moment and then slid up and back, kneeling between the heavily muscled thighs. James helpfully drew his legs up and back, and Q dipped lubed fingers downward, circling the entrance to his lover's body before sliding forward, the muscle clenching and relaxing as James pressed down. He added more lube, spreading it thoroughly before James reached an impatient hand down, and tugged his fingers free. “Get the condom on and give me something more than your fingers, right bloody now.”

“Well, since you're asking so nicely.” Q wiped his fingers, rolled on the condom, and slathered more lube on it and lined up, easing in slowly, feeling the tight grip and the welcome heat and desperately trying not to come immediately because it felt so damned good. James gave an impatient wriggle and Q got a grip on the back of those lovely thighs and pushed all the way in. He began to move, building to a rapid rhythm quickly, hearing the slap of flesh against flesh and watching James' face twist with the pleasure, breath rasping and his hands grabbing at Q's backside, fingers flexing and pulling him in even harder. The mix of sweat and James' precome formed a slick pool that spread between them as James' cock jerked with each hard stroke. James finally slid one broad hand between them and fisted himself, staring up, blue eyes gone dark with need, and stroked his hand up and down, matching the rhythm of Q fucking him. Q was almost dizzy with the overload of input. He felt the sudden spasms of internal muscles rippling around his cock as James erupted between them, streaks of white painting them both. It pushed him over a scant few seconds later, collapsing forward into the sticky mess and not caring at all.


	8. Chapter 8

The world steadied a bit as their breathing evened out. Q, after a few tries, rolled to one side and disposed of the condom, grabbing one of the discarded towels from the floor to mop up with. “We need another shower,” he observed. James just gave a quiet and contented sounding hum. “Come on, James. You know you don't want to sleep like this.”

James, the bastard, pinched him, but did get up. When Q followed him to the bathroom, he didn't go to the shower but stepped into the huge tub that Q had, somehow, managed to ignore. Sunk into the floor, it offered room enough for half a dozen people. James sank into the water, gestured for Q to join him and hit a sequence of buttons on the tile rim. Jets bubbled and the lights dimmed and Q let himself float for a bit. The entire situation was so unreal that it seemed perfectly reasonable to be floating in a tub the size of a swimming pool, looking at the view of a volcanic caldera in a hotel that made anyplace else he had ever stayed look like a slum. He eventually drifted within reach of James who snagged one ankle and tugged him in to sit on the ledge and kissed him, slow, careful and relaxed. Q's toes curled and he rested his head back against the tile surround. 

James gave a soft chuckle. Q cracked one eye open. James' smile broadened, and he ran fingers over the beard Q had been growing over the past several days. “It looks good but I'm not used to seeing it.”

Q closed his eyes again. “I thought it might help make me less recognizable, especially traveling the way I was. Frankly I'll be glad to be rid of it. I forgot why I dislike having one.” He scratched irritably at the edge of his jaw. 

“I'd be happy to assist you with that,” Bond offered. He stepped up to the edge of the tub and walked to the long counter backed by lighted mirrors. Q took the opportunity to open his eyes and follow the movement, all sleek muscles and tanned skin. Bond pulled out a chair from the counter and gestured. Q bemusedly slid up and out of the tub and crossed the floor. He watched as Bond stropped the antique razor he preferred over anything more modern and mixed up some frothy soap in a mug. He draped a towel around Q's neck and shoulders and began applying the soap, slow brush strokes that covered Q's face with warm foam. “Just hold still,” Bond directed. He drew the blade in a slow, steady glide down one cheek, the beard disappearing as if by magic as Q watched in the mirror. He would have thought that it might take more strokes since it was only the single edge but apparently the quality of the blade and the skill of the wielder made a huge difference. He had never bothered to get a professional shave by a barber. James seemed to have amazing skill and cleared away the soap and the beard in quick sure movements. Q peered at the mirror, touching his face afterward, admiring the results. 

“Feels smoother than I expected,” Q commented. “Thank you. Is it too early to get some sleep?”

Bond smiled and placed a kiss on the top of Q's head, both of them reflected in the mirror. “You look done in. Let's get some rest and talk later. There's a lot to take in.” 

Q detoured to the bags he had left in the foyer and dug out the case for the contacts and his glasses, removing the lenses with relief and placing the more familiar glasses back on his nose. Bond was tidying away things when he exited the bathroom. He held up the leathers and gestured at the laundry service bag he had already half filled with other items. “Do you want these to go as well. I'm sure they can send them out.”

Q waved them away. “Please. I feel like I've been wearing the things forever.” He felt a sudden horror creep up his spine, recalling the very physical details of their reunion. “James, you just...”

James dropped the bag near the door, crossed the few feet and hauled Q into his arms. “You've dealt with worse when I've come in from a bad mission. I recollect that morning after I flew back from Bahrain. I was bruised, bloody and had sand in places nobody should ever get sand. Your welcome was enthusiastic, to say the least. I think I'll survive you being a bit sweaty.” He punctuated the reassurances with kisses, all the while sidling Q closer to the huge bed. He urged him down to sit on the edge and stepped to the floor to ceiling windows, pulling the drapes over the view that was one of the most desirable in Europe. “Let's sleep a bit and I'll order room service and talk about what happens next.” He grabbed their respective sidearms and deposited them on the nightstands, along with their mobiles, making sure they were hooked to chargers. 

Q lay back against the ridiculously stuffed pillows, and there were a seriously stupid number of them, placing his glasses carefully within reach. Closing his eyes, he felt the tug of sleep almost immediately. He rolled lazily to his side, making certain he was in contact with James as they both relaxed and the room grew silent except for their even breathing.


	9. Chapter 9

Q woke to the sound of James speaking to somebody. Since he couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, he deduced the man must be on the phone. Sure enough, James wandered back into the bedroom from the front of the suite, mobile in hand and dressed in one of the soft terry bath robes the hotel provided. 

“Good morning,” James greeted, leaning in for a kiss and running strong fingers through Q's sleep tousled hair. “I ordered food. It should be here in twenty minutes or so." Q took advantage of the timing, managing a speedy shower and donning a robe exactly like James'. He grinned in the mirror. The bloody thing swam on him, brushing around his ankles, whereas James' came only to mid calf. He decided to forgo the contacts at the moment. His eyes felt like they could use the break. By the time he stepped back out, James was answering a polite knock at the suite door, glancing through the peephole and keeping his gun out of sight behind his back. He pocketed the weapon, opened the door and allowed the server to enter, heavy tray balanced on one shoulder. The man settled the tray on the small table by the windows and departed with a smile and a wish for them to enjoy the meal. 

The view drew Q's eyes, both the spectacle of the volcano and his companion. They ate in silence for a while, Q appreciating that James had ordered his favorite morning tea. The familiarity of that small detail was comforting. Bond had leaned back a bit, second cup of coffee in hand. “The French agents were part of the smuggling ring. The men in the boat never aimed at them. They got the drone and came straight after me.”

“Did M know?” Q asked, bitterly aware that agents had been sent into situations before without knowledge that might have saved them injury or death. 

“He briefed me and ordered me not to tell anyone. The head of the DGSE asked for help because he thought there was a mole in his organization. It's much worse. That entire station seems to be involved in the smuggling ring.”

“How many?” Q asked.

“Maybe a dozen. Their station chief has to be in on it. All the reports go through him and he was very unhappy when I turned up with orders from his boss. I'm fairly sure that entire thing on the beach was set up to get rid of me.”

“I'd recommend we contact M and have him chat with the French. I mean, their chief already suspected something was wrong, just not how much. Wait, what 's the station chief's name?” Q was already heading for his rucksack, hauling out his tablet and opening the heavily encrypted device.

“He's Alain Mallete, supposedly a career man who started as an agent,” Bond replied.

Q opened windows and tapped away for several minutes. “So, on a salary similar to one of our section chiefs, how does he have so much money squirreled away under an alias in Belize?” Q tapped a few more times and put the tablet down and set his mobile next to it. It took about five minutes to ring. He waited before picking it up, knowing he was going to have to explain a lot more than the email he had just sent. “Yes,” he said quietly as he tapped the answer button. He listened for a bit. “I sent you that information because it is relevant to the action in Martigues, sir. And I am putting this on speaker.”

“Why, for heaven's sake?” It was M's voice from the speaker. “Oh, of course. The other party is 007? I suppose I might have expected that.”

Q's response was tart and pointed. “I don't see how when you decided he was dead without verifying.”

“Yes, I suppose I should never count dead agents without seeing the bodies,” M replied, the faintest trace of rueful amusement coloring his voice. “So, what exactly is going on? And this line better bloody well be secure.”

Bond seemed to sense Q was ready to snap back and intervened, Q taking a breath and nodding. “I went dark, sir. You supposed a mole. It's much worse. That entire section is corrupt. They're organizing the arms exchanges and the section chief is making a lot of money off it. I realized at the boathouse rendezvous that I was the target and decided dropping out of sight was a smart option. I rather thought our Quartermaster might be able to follow the few clues I left and I was correct.”

“Yes,” said M. “I think we might have a serious conversation about that when all the rest of this is settled. Well, you're both out there now. Any suggestions?”

Q had regained his self control. “Can you contact the head of the DGSE without any of his staff being aware? With the information I sent you, he should be convinced and close the French side down and interrogate the men involved. Hopefully, that will give our agencies actual information about the African connection so we can shut that side down.”

“I'll fly to Paris myself if I have to. Face to face may be the only way to make sure the conversation is completely private.” M paused and there was the sound of door opening and closing. “Tanner's here. Should I have him arrange transportation for the two of you?”

Q shook his head when Bond opened his mouth. He allowed Q to speak up and supply the answer. “No, sir. I believe we'll manage on our own.”

“See that you do that,” M replied. “I'll expect you back by the end of the week at the latest.”

The call ended and they both sat back. “Don't trust our own?” Bond asked.

“It's not that I don't trust M. But if he had told me about the concerns first, I might have found Mallette out sooner. I'd prefer to rely on just us.”

“Can you handle taking the bike back?” Bond asked. “It might be the best option for staying under the radar.”

“What about you?” Q asked.

“I'm sure we can manage with just yours until we get back to the mainland. I'd prefer to wait until then to get one for myself. The ones available here would be dubious at best.” Bond toyed with the corner of the linen napkin. “I will have to get something for riding.” He stood and rang the line to the concierge desk and had a brief conversation. He turned back to Q when he finished. “Care to come along? The desk recommended a shop that may have what I need.”


	10. Chapter 10

They climbed the cliff stairs to the hotel lot. Bond admired Q's bike but they took the rental car Bond had hired instead, following a winding road and scribbled directions from the concierge. The shop, when they found it, was in a small square dominated by a church at one end. The proprietor was a young man with an Eastern European accent. He introduced himself as Ivo Popov, first in Greek and then in excellent French when Bond asked if he spoke it. They left the shop a bit later with receipts and a promise of delivery for Bond's new leathers, helmet and boots. Q had complained about the quality of the blue tooth receiver in the helmet but muttered that he would tinker it into something better. 

They dined at a cafe that served local food and wine, the tomatoes on the table having come from the garden just behind the patio. Q divided his attention between the excellent meal and watching James across from him, the sun flashing off the rims of his sunglasses as he kept a subtle eye on everything around them. The man's posture was casual, one suntanned arm resting on the back of the rustic wooden chair but the eyes behind the lenses were never still. Q thought about saying something but he realized James was never really off duty as it were. That level of attention was what had kept him alive.

“When do we need to start back?” was what he finally said.

“I'm thinking in the morning. Get the early ferry. I'm in agreement with you. Tell M as little as possible about our plans. I'd feel safer keeping our route random” 

Q nodded. He leaned back and squinted up at the impossibly blue sky. The place felt like something separate from their every day world, slower paced and relaxed. He wondered if that was just because they were guests but he had not seen the locals exhibiting any stress. He was just thinking how nice it would be to take an actual holiday here when James reached over and touched his hand, a brief brush of fingers. “We should come back here some day. I'd like to spend some time just being tourists with you.”

Q smiled and finished the last of the red wine they had drunk with their lunch. “Let's go back to the hotel and make use of the time we have.”

Aside from room service and the delivery of the clean laundry and Bond's new gear, they spent the rest of the day lounging in the opulent room. Q, true to his promise, put his skills to good use and modified the basic connections in Bond's helmet so it linked to his. Bond turned the helmet over in his hands. “It's rather the same thing as the earpieces on missions.”

Q adjusted the settings on his own and put the tools away. “Not quite the range but good enough for the moment. Now, how do you feel about lying down and allowing me to do wicked things to you?” He attempted a stage villain leer.

Bond made an equally theatrical dive for the bed, bouncing on the mattress and ending up flat on his back, star fished out across the duvet and grinning. “My Quartermaster makes the best suggestions,” he proclaimed.

Q shook his head as he stripped off and approached. “Hedonist,” he accused. “You only say that when sex is involved. You have no problem ignoring me when you're in the field.”

“I never ignore you, Q. I just sometimes make decisions based on what the situation is on the ground.”

Q was slowly creeping up the mattress, one gradual, considered move at a time, studying James' relaxed form, the easy grin. He was so different when they were alone like this. All the studied charm and polish vanished. He was still utterly seductive but not in a considered way. And Q was always completely entranced by it and amazed that he seemed to have the exact same effect on James. “Well, since I doubt your clothes would benefit from an application of lube, you might want to get out of them.” Q was reaching for the nightstand drawer, extracting the bottle and condoms and dropping them on the bed in easy reach. Between them, they managed to extricate James from his clothing, Q delightedly tossing articles over his shoulder haphazardly. If James disapproved of the cavalier treatment of his wardrobe, he was too busy to comment. 

Q lavished kisses on every inch of new skin uncovered, moving with purpose down the muscled chest and over tight abdominals that quivered and twitched under the attention. He rubbed his cheek against the silken skin of the already erect cock, then opened his mouth to lick teasingly at the head. James was propped on his elbows, watching. Q smiled back, a dreamy expression as he licked his lips and sucked very gently, feeling the quiver of muscles as James fought his own impulses to remain still. He continued the tease, never quite enough to be satisfying but always keeping James completely focused on what he was doing. He eventually had enough of the game. He wanted something in particular. Q sat back, squeezed lube into his palm and dealt James' erection a slow up and down stroke, earning a stifled gasp and shudder at the sudden chill. He fumbled the condom packet and James finally wrenched it away and slid it on himself, allowing Q to apply lube to the outside and bring the rest to his own opening, grinding down slowly on his fingers and watching James' eyes darken. He finally eased himself up, James carefully holding his cock steady. Q remembered the first time they had done this. James had watched with the same fascination every time. Q found the right angle, eased down and felt the first stretch and began to slowly lower himself, the familiar burn and fullness forcing a soft moan from his lips. He allowed his weight to descend slowly, the gradual joining of their bodies a familiar feeling now. He flexed and shifted, finding the right angle and his own arousal rocketed up, electricity lighting his nerves as he felt the pressure hit the exact spot. He rocked up and then slid down and James grabbed his hips. Q had a vague thought he might have finger bruises there tomorrow but it fled his mind immediately. He rose and fell, throwing in a quick roll of his hips, hearing James gasp and clutch at him, thrusting up to meet him until he gave a long low groan. Q, sank all the way down and grabbed his own cock, stroking it in a quick rhythm, coming in heated spurts and feeling James flinch as strong muscles clamped down. Q breathed deeply for a moment or two, then gently leaned forward, allowing James to slip free. He made a half hearted grab for the condom but James reached it first and disposed of it in the bedside waste bin, grabbing a handful of kleenex to mop up between them.

Eventually they made it to the tub, soaking until Q complained his fingers were pruning. They ate finger foods from room service and exchanged lazy kisses before they returned to the bed where, wrapped around each other in the Aegean moonlight flooding the room, they slept.


	11. Chapter 11

Standing at the rail of the morning ferry, Q looked out at the sea and the rocky coast. They had taken a few turns around the parking lot that morning, Bond riding behind Q. It didn't take long for them to get the balance right, both being experienced riders. Bond had acquiesced with surprising grace to Q driving, it being his bike after all. Hopefully the rest of the trip would be as easy. Bond was also leaning on the rail, although he was watching the passengers and crew from behind his sunglasses. 

“I'm wondering if it might be a good idea to check in with M after all, maybe find out what the French are doing,” Q mused. 

“I'm sure he'll contact us if there's anything we need to know. My concern is that the men involved are well organized. They've been doing this for some time. It's conceivable some of them might evade capture.” Bond continued to study the crowds of tourists wandering the decks, stepping forward and steadying an elderly lady who almost lost her balance as the ferry began to slow for it's approach to Piraeus. “And if there is actually a mole higher up, the whole snakes' nest of them may just disappear to North Africa or the Far East on the money they've made already.”

Q gave an inelegant snort. “Not likely. Their accounts have gone poof.” He made an exploding gesture with his fingers.

Bond frowned. “Good thinking but it may make them just that much more desperate.”

“They'll be too busy hiding to worry about anything else,” Q judged.

“I hope you're right. Because with the men involved and the amount of money, plus the African connection, there's a very high likelihood they may come looking for me. And that makes you a target as well.” 

Q nudged his elbow lightly. “I doubt they'll find me an easy one. Besides, where would they get the intel? M's not talking and, even if he was, he doesn't know where we are.”

Bond grunted noncommittally as they descended to the car deck to retrieve the bike. Three hours later, they were leaving Athens behind with Bond mounted on a huge Harley Davidson. Q thought the heavy machine suited Bond, a classic touring machine designed for an experienced rider. His own suited him perfectly but he privately promised himself he was going to get a few miles in on that one before the road trip was over. There was no real hurry and they took the main motorways heading for Paris, stopping at small towns for meals and to find a hotel for overnight. They talked over the headsets in the helmets, Bond relating stories when they passed places where missions had taken him. They were still half a day outside Paris when the mobile sent an alert. They pulled off and Q opened the screen. 

“Yes,” he said shortly when the call connected, hitting the speaker function as he did so.

“Q, I have news. The DGSE took action early this morning. They targeted all the agents in the section.” M's voice was not reassuring. Q could hear the stress in it. 

“How bad is it?” he asked, not willing to wait for the long version.

M sounded almost apologetic. “They got all of them except four.”

“Let me guess, the four who were working with 007,” Q's voice made it clear that wasn't a question.

“It was apparently bad luck. They were all supposed to be present for a meeting but those four arrived late and something tipped them off, nobody is really sure what, but they disappeared and the agents handling the pick up didn't want to lose the rest of them so they did what they were able to.”

“So, now those four are in the wind and probably fairly irritated that their little business venture has been halted.”

There was a significant silence at the other end of the call. Finally, M resumed. “It's worse than that. One of the group in custody gave the team something in exchange for consideration. The DGSE passed it on to me. They know 007 is alive and they shopped him to the African end of the smuggling operation. There are no less than half a dozen assassins looking for him since he disappeared in Martigues. The concern is that if we try to engineer an extraction, it might lead them straight to you. These bastards seem to have ears everywhere and we would have to let the French know about any such plan since it will involve their operations.” The frustration in the man's voice was clear. 

“The best option, then is to keep on as we have been,” Q rejoined. “We're aware of the problem and, traveling as we are, less subject to notice. I like our chances this way.” Q disconnected the call and kicked at the ground for a moment with the toe of his boot. “Anything else you can think of?” he asked.

“I think you've got the right idea. The one problem is that the closer we get to English soil, the more they'll concentrate their efforts. The ports are going to be the real problem, getting back across the Channel.” Bond studied the motorway behind them. 

“What about the shuttle train?” Q asked referencing the car train that traversed the Channel via the tunnel. “It's faster than the ferry.”

James shook his head. “Faster, yes. But fewer options once we're aboard. Less chance of seeing someone approaching. Ferry is still safer.”

“Ferry it is then,” Q agreed. “Let's get some food and a good night's rest and then Calais tomorrow. I'd rather be rested.”


	12. Chapter 12

They found an out of the way bed and breakfast and were up early the following morning. Q placed his Beretta in the hiding place on the bike, being less used to carrying a firearm than Bond, he chose to rely on the agent's ability and not risk his own gun being discovered. They were only a few minutes from the ferry point when Bond keyed the microphone. 

“We have company,” his voice crackled over the connection. “At least two men in a black sedan about two cars back.”

Q glanced at his mirrors and the heads up in his helmet. “I think there's another as well. The white van in the next lane over.”

“Just keep moving and slide over to the right when you can. I may have an idea. Follow me when I move.” Bond merged into the right lane and Q followed, not rushing the movement. Their shadows waited a moment and then moved as well. “See the cargo depot? We'll take the first gate. There's a gap in the barrier they can't get through. They'll have to go around to another entrance.” 

They approached the gate at speed, leaning into the sharp turn and darting through the small space. Their pursuers drove on down the fence, hunting an alternate entrance. Q followed Bond through a maze of stacked wrapped pallets and cargo containers. When Bond halted, Q pulled his bike up parallel and dismounted, standing close as Bond listened. “How many?” 

Bond kept studying their surroundings. “At least two in the car. The van, no idea.” He peered around a corner and looked up and down the lane between the islands of stored cargo. “I doubt they can come at us by car. The spaces are too narrow. And we still have the maneuverability of the bikes. The question is, are these the escaped agents or the hired guns?” He pulled back quickly, shoulders pressed to the metal surface of the crate behind him. Q mimicked the posture, barely breathing. “One of the fugitive agents is in the lead. I recognized him. He'd know me as well.” 

They waited, listening to the subtle sounds of the approaching men. Bond slid his weapon free of the holster and eased the safety off. A sudden movement of a body across the space in front of them and gunfire cracked in the echoing spaces between the stacked cargo. Metal pinged off metal around them and spun away randomly as Bond held his firing stance and whipped off three rounds. There was a cut off cry. One of the shots, at least, had found a target but more firing from the end of the lane pushed them back to cover. Q retrieved the Beretta and the spare mags, placing himself with his back to Bond. Their opponents would surely try a flanking approach. Sure enough, a hint of motion at the far end drew Q's fire, one round that resulted in a choked off yelp and a dropped weapon. A flicker of movement caught his attention and he aimed and fired in a single smooth movement and a body pitched forward into the aisle, spasming once or twice as blood fountained from a wound in the neck. The movements ceased abruptly. Bond had taken out two more and changed out his empty magazine. 

“How many more?” Q asked, keeping his voice low.

“I think there's two more. One is the agent I recognized first. They know we're here and that they're dealing with more than one opponent.” Bond was continuing to study the avenues of approach.

The attack was sudden. One figure lunged forward, firing rapidly. As he did so, the other man jumped down from the top of the stacked pallets at the end of the row directly behind Q. In the resulting chaos, Q found himself gripped from behind, gun wrested away. Bond snarled and grappled with his own opponent, halting when he realized that Q had a weapon pointed at his head. The tableau held for a few scant minutes before Q gave a confident grin. He immediately went completely limp, dropping forward like a rag doll. The man holding him fumbled briefly and that's when Q got his hand to his boot. The knife swung up and back and he twisted and jabbed. Unable to get a decent aim in close quarters, the man grabbed for a knife of his own. Q heard the struggle resume behind him but kept his focus on the man before him. He was good but Q rather thought he was better. He feinted a few times to watch the responses and then moved in with a flurry of sharp slashes intended to disable and one final brutal upstroke that buried the blade to the hilt. Withdrawing the blade, he spun to the continuing conflict behind him. Bond and the traitor agent were hammering at each other with their fists, guns lost early on in the fight. Q found an opening and gave a feral growl before leaping on the back of the Frenchman and clawing his head back. A sharp sweep and he almost decapitated the man, bright arterial blood spraying everywhere. Bond wiped the red spatter from his face and looked at Q with complete disbelief. Q calmly wiped the blade off on the clothing of the man he had just killed, examined the edge critically, tsked at a perceived nick and then slid it back into his boot. He reached a hand down and Bond allowed himself to be tugged to his feet. 

Bond looked around them and then back at Q. “What just happened? I mean, you seem to have a few skills I'm not used to seeing in Quartermasters.”

Q shrugged and gave a lopsided grin. “Misspent youth. I learned some things that have proven useful.” His tone was a bit self mocking and he proceeded to retrieve the phone from his inside pocket. He punched in the number. “M, any updates?”

M's voice sounded tired. “It appears that the French recaptured one of the escaped agents and our people got one as well. He was not captured but was eliminated along with a hired mercenary. The others are still in the wind I'm afraid.”

Q tried not to sound smug. “It would seem 007 and I have accounted for,” he looked up as Bond was checking bodies, holding up two fingers, “the other two DGSE traitors and five hit men. We'll need clean up and extraction for sure now. I doubt our original plan to return will work very well.”

“What do you mean by that?” M's voice shrewd and sharp. “What exactly did Bond do?”

Bond looked aggrieved. Q held a hand up and answered. “It was a combined effort and I doubt the local authorities will appreciate seven corpses. Preemptive action might save a lot of questions.”

“I'll expect complete reports. Send me coordinates and I'll have operatives there as soon as feasible.”

Q sent a text with the requested data and ended the call. Bond had reloaded both their weapons and gathered the assortment from the bodies. It made a considerable heap against the container wall. Bond gave a gusty sigh, broken off with a sharp gasp as he pulled one of the multiple bruises and cuts he had, no doubt, sustained. He retrieved a bottle of water and a hand towel from the bike and tried to wipe away the worst of the blood. “So, knives?”

Q had grabbed another bottle of water and soothed his throat a bit before answering. “You've never asked me about my family.”

Bond frowned a bit. “Wasn't sure it was my business and, if you decided I needed to know, you'd have told me.”

“My parents were,” Q pursed his lips as he considered the best word, “normal. I mean really middle of the road, middle class, average. And they had no idea what to do about me. I was scarily smart to them. I was placing out of all my classes and they just didn't understand why I didn't get along with the kids my age. I started running with much older kids, bikers mostly. They appreciated someone who could get a bit more performance out of their bikes. And, because fights were a way of life, I learned how to fight and I fought dirty because I was still younger and smaller than any of the rest of them. I was taught how to use any advantage. And the funny thing was, the police never seemed to believe I was dangerous. Every time my friends and I got picked up, and it happened a lot, they'd release me to my parents with a stern warning. Until I put a kid in hospital. That got me sent away for a bit but I got out at 18. And university challenged me enough that I didn't need to act out. Of course I was living with my aunt by then. When my parents turned me away, she took me in. She was the family black sheep. Told them all to go to hell and opened a pawn shop. I worked there to help out. I fixed all the broken electronics so she could sell them. My juvenile record was expunged of course. MI6 wouldn't want that around.” 

“Can I see that knife?” James asked idly. Q produced the blade, flipping it easily so he could hand it over safely. James examined the weapon carefully, testing the edge and the balance, flipping it from hand to hand, nodding approval at the weight. He handed it back and sidled closer, placing an arm around Q's shoulders and kissing his tangled mess of hair. “You're still scary. You have no idea what you looked like coming at that last one from behind. I wouldn't have put it past you to use your teeth instead of the knife. But then, you've hardly been your usual buttoned up self at all. Maybe it's all the leather?”

Q gave an irritated snort. “It's more that I'm a stroppy little bastard all the time. I just control it better at work. And it shouldn't surprise you at all. MI6 gave you over to me to protect and that is what I will do, however I have to.” He poked a bony finger into a vulnerably bruised rib and James ouched mildly. 

They sat like that for about ninety minutes, surrounded by dead men, before hearing approaching engines. The mobile alerted and lit up with a message. 'Extraction team imminent.' A few moments later there was a shouted “Hello!”

The voice was familiar. “Over here,” Bond called out. 

Tanner poked his head around the corner a moment later. He gave a soundless whistle as he took in the carnage then Bond's own blood soaked figure. “Need medical?”

“Not mine,” Bond replied shortly, poking at the new and undoubtedly ruined leather jacket. “We're both fine. You may want to collect all this and the rest of it.” He gestured broadly at the heaped weapons and the collection of bodies. “I think we just need a ride home and a hot shower.” Tanner nodded hesitantly as he watched Q fastidiously cleaning under his fingernails with the point of the knife. He gestured nervously at the end of the cargo area. Bond heaved to his feet, Q gliding upward more gracefully and following after replacing the knife. The vehicle was a large sedan with opaqued windows and official plates. Q and Bond settled in the back seat after being assured the bikes would be trailered back. Tanner occupied the front passenger seat and the young employee driving kept glancing nervously in the rear view. Bond wasn't paying any attention to the driver but Q, nerves still crackling from the unaccustomed combat, was feeling very much like his more daring younger self. He waited until the driver had gotten out onto the road before he reached around James, tugging his head into position and kissing him with determination and plenty of tongue. He heard the driver gasp and chuckled, a totally evil sound, as Tanner heaved the privacy barrier up with an air of exasperation. 

“You're a bit of a firecracker, love,” James murmured between biting kisses. Q wasn't satisfied with the degree of contact. He shifted over and twisted until he got himself settled in James' lap and burrowed clever hands under shirt and blood stained jacket. “Hold up,” he said, pulling away just enough. “Since when does my very level headed Quartermaster decide to molest me in the back seat of a car?”

Q ground down getting a satisfying gasp from James. “Are you objecting?” 

“Not at all, but I hope you're not going to blame me for the looks you're going to be getting. Tanner is fairly circumspect but I don't know about the driver.” James sounded as reasonable as a man could be when his dick was being strangled in tight leather trousers. 

“James, I wouldn't care if M marched half the bloody cabinet past us in the middle of Trafalgar Square. Right now, I want you, and unless you have a serious objection, I intend to make a mess of you.” He paused and took in the rather less than sartorially perfect appearace of his lover. “Well, more of a mess anyway.” 

James gave him a slightly crooked grin and wrapped a big hand around the back of Q's head, stroking behind one ear with his thumb. “Well, you might want to move the proceedings along. If I'm not mistaken, we're taking the Eurostar and the crossing is less than a half hour and from the noises outside we'll be boarding any minute. Q cocked his head to take in the muffled sounds barely penetrating the armoring and bullet resistant glass. 

“Challenge accepted.” Q attacked fastenings and pushed and shoved until he got to skin. James had a few seriously livid bruises along his chest and ribs and Q gentled his touch over them but was otherwise fierce in laying claiming kisses and nips anywhere he could reach. James had to help him with the trouser fastenings, accompanied by some fairly creative cursing, before Q managed to get hold of James' cock. He slid back and into the fortunately roomy foot well and gave a firm stroke of tongue over the flushed rigid length before sliding his mouth over the head and drawing as much in as he could. James gave a low groan and dug his hands into the seat edge. Q made sure he gave his best effort, sucking and swirling his tongue and using the barest edge of teeth to make James lose his mind. It was very satisfying to watch his normally controlled lover biting his lip, muscles straining as he tried to stretch the moment. Q smiled internally. Not likely. He picked up the pace and slid one finger behind James' balls and stroked knowingly, in rhythm with his sucking before swallowing once and hearing the staccato grunts as heat poured down his throat. He gave a final swirling lick and brought himself back to sit in James' lap. He slid his own erection along the center of James' belly, a sensuous glide over sweat streaked muscled planes. He gave himself over to the simple pleasure for as long as he dared and then dragged one of James' lax hands to his groin, clasping both their hands snugly and stroking himself hard and fast, coming in a rush that splattered up to his lover's chin. 

They sprawled in the aftermath of the amorous storm, regaining their breath. Bond stirred first, nudging Q gently with his knee. “I hope you have some means of making us look less like participants in a drive by orgy?” 

Q swatted his thigh in retaliation. “Official car, 007. Bottled water and kleenex in the door pockets.” They made use of both, helping each other to put their clothes back in place before settling back against the cushioned seats. “It's going to be a nasty debriefing,” Q commented, feeling the oppressive weight of what he had done. “M is going to be livid.”

Bond stretched and slouched in the seat. “You're too valuable. M knows MI6 wouldn't be what it is without you. He may shout a bit but he can't really do anything other than express his displeasure. Besides, we can point out that you discovered the financial connection to Mallette with relative ease, something he might have known before any of this mess happened.”

Before they had a chance to consider further, there was a sharp rapping at the privacy shield. A moment later it slid down, Tanner's apprehensive face relaxing into something like his usual equanimity when he saw them sitting decorously six inches apart. “We'll be back at MI6 in about fifteen. M wants to see you both as soon as we arrive.”

Bond gave a toothy grin, knowing the picture he and Q presented. “Of course. And we'll be pleased to do just that. Won't we Q?”

Tanner looked decidedly uncomfortable when Q's grin matched Bond's. “Of course we will, 007”


	13. Chapter 13

The debriefing was actually quite short. M took one look at the pair of them and sat them down with a glass apiece of his good scotch. He sat himself back behind his desk and stared at the two of them and then leaned forward, tapping a rigid forefinger into the file in the center of the leather blotter. “I have a report here that records a complaint from the French government of an unsanctioned operation on French soil. I am required to take disciplinary action against the responsible parties.” He sighed and sat back again. “However, the chief of the DGSE has privately informed me that the traitors within his organization would have continued their actions without your intervention. He has not gone so far as to thank me but has informed me he looks forward to further collaboration.” He steepled his fingers and looked at both of them carefully. “I accordingly will suspend the pair of you, with pay, for say, two weeks. I think that should be sufficient.” 

They both finished their drinks. “Anything else, M?” Bond asked as he pushed up from the chair. 

M looked sharply at both of them. “I'd suggest you clean up properly unless you wish to frighten the general public. Dismissed.” He looked down at his desk as they moved to the door. “Oh, and gentlemen, you might be cognizant of the fact that our official cars are all surveillance equipped.”

They were in the elevator heading to the gym level to shower and change clothes. The lift was deserted except for themselves. Q was livid, face flushed and steam practically curling from his ears. Bond snorted, a mirth filled delighted sound. “Don't you dare, Q. You jumped me, remember.”

“Bloody Mallory,” Q fumed. “It's his fault we ended up in the bloody mess in the first place.”

“I suggest you think of it this way, Q. He had to be mortified. He must have had a look at the surveillance. Then he had to look at us sitting there with those images in his head. I don't envy him, but I bet he envies us just a bit.”

Q looked at him sidelong. “You may have a point at that. So let's take advantage of the 'suspension' and go somewhere.” He yawned widely. “Although now I just want to go to bed.”

Bond hustled him out of the lift. “That is definitely in the cards. Shower, fresh clothes, and my place.” At Q's raised eye brow, he continued. “It's closest and we both have been on the move way too much.”

“Fine,” Q agreed, “but in a few days, we take the bikes and go on a holiday.” Bond looked down at the scuffed and blood crusted leathers. “Never mind, we can both afford new ones.”

Bond leaned in just before they opened the door to the locker rooms. “So long as I get to peel you out of them at the end of the day, that suits me just fine.”


End file.
